The Image Given Back
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Jim pays a respectful visit to Baker Street. [A quick little oneshot, a companion to Black Glass, with massive spoilers for Vow.]


Missed me, missed me, now you've got to…?

Nah, I'm just kidding. But do me a favour; when you get home, kiss the mirror in the bathroom. You'll like that anyway. When a man comes back from the jaws of disaster, he has a kiss for the one he loves most, doesn't he? So I'll do it now, and when you get in you do the same, and that's as close as we'll get to the real thing.

Your fireplace stinks of piss, do you know this? I mean, I'd heard you were back on the junk, but seriously? In your own home? The only reason I haven't been in the bedroom yet is because I've got the phrase 'don't shit where you sleep' stuck in my head.

Oh, but I'm being cruel. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason that your fireplace stinks of piss and I'm just missing something.

Marking your territory, were you? I'm sure it's been an adjustment, now that your sweet prince has moved himself out. What's Mary like when you get to know her? No, don't tell me. No, looking forward to finding out. A naughty girl by all accounts. Moran says I hired her once when he was indisposed, but I don't remember it. There've been so many kills. I'm pretty sure he's thinking of someone else. Bit funny about Americans, myself.

Do you want me to tell you what AGRA stands for?

Ah, no, I'm joking, I'm joking. No, I don't actually know. If you want me to find out for you, though, just say the word. A little gift, me to you. A little welcome-home. Because let's face it, you might have landed back in London, what, a year ago? But you haven't really been _back_-back, have you. I mean, what have you been doing with yourself?

Don't get me wrong – I've got four sisters, I know what goes into planning a wedding. There's months in that. But were you really all that amused by that? I was trying to figure it out the whole time. The only thing I could think of… Could you see her? Morstan, I mean, could you see what she was? Sitting there, trying to put it together, missing those few key facts that would have made it glaringly obvious… Yes, I could believe that a bit better than that you were, I don't know, folding bloody napkins or something.

So aside from the mess (and the fireplace that stinks of piss), doesn't look like much has changed round here. Honestly you could have had those bullet holes in the wall filled. Nice excuse to get rid of that _awful_ wallpaper. And the _graffiti_… that doss house touch you just couldn't live without? C'mon now. And your chair has never been comfortable. And the steer skull, with the headphones on it. Where am I, somebody's city-college digs?

Sorry, I'm being awfully rude. And it's been so long, I don't suppose I'm putting us on the best footing. Let's see, what do I like, what do I like… I like that you stack your post on a knife, that's very apt. I hate post too. Never anything in it. Boring.

I like your butterflies. Though I have been somewhat distracted from them by the smells around here. Apart from the stink of piss from the fireplace, of course. Please explain that to me, it's driving me _mad_. Anyway, what I mean is, there's perfume in the air. Hairspray smell right as you come in the door. And there was a distinct chemical tang in your bathroom that can only be a certain brand of hair removal cream.

Don't worry. I'm not stealing your little deduction thing. Nothing like that. But I did have to get all dolled up and be gay for you that time, remember?

That came out wrong.

Look, all I'm saying is, I get the distinct impression the butterflies aren't the only thing that's been pinned and mounted in this room. And I'm _really_ disappointed, because I thought you were above all that. Or, if not, that at least you and I had had something _special_.

Heh. Gotcha again, didn't I? It's just so much _fun_ keeping you guessing.

That's what I came here to do, y'know. I was going to write 'Gotcha' all over the place. Little places. Y'know. Inside cupboard doors, that sort of thing. Write it on slips of paper and put them in the pockets of various items of clothing for you to find. Write it in soap on the bathroom mirror and you wouldn't see it until the steam from the bath rose up and marked it out. But then I got here and…

I want to leave you your disbelief. Right up until the moment you can't deny it anymore, I want to leave you the possibility. Because there _is_ a possibility. These could be the instructions left in my will. I could be a copycat. This could all be a set-up to trap you. After all, how realistic is it that I'd be able to sit back and watch you and not say a word? Do you honestly think I'd rush into action to save you your little Yugoslavian death sentence? I don't rush for anybody, remember? I want to exist only in the shadow of your doubts.

I want you to come home, and sit down (after you've kissed the mirror for me), and say, "Someone's been sitting in _my_ chair."

Did you see me? Forgive me. I didn't mean to bring it up. You're not even hear to answer me. Did you see me? There was a day. You'd just come back. You were on your own, I think on the way to reintroduce yourself to someone. And you were walking down Bayham Road, do you remember this? There were people between us, but I thought you saw me, and I nodded to you. And as the crowd moved, I swear, we were pushed so close I could feel the rise and fall of your chest. I remember distinctly thinking, in as many words, _He's still breathing_… But I never knew if you saw me or not.

That's the thing about Banquo's ghost; the real actor generally has to be on stage. There's no spectre at the feast, not ever. It's always just poor old bloody Banquo.

We'll have to catch up sometime. I'm tempted just to sit here and wait, but you're probably half-expecting that. Anyway, you're liable to show up with Watson… sorry, with _the Watsons_, plural, and at least one of them will have a pop at murdering me. That would be no fun at all, after all this. Nigh on three years pretending, I can't just get _shot_ now, can I?

Nah. Suppose I'd better just go...

Wouldn't it be great if I walked under a bus though? Don't answer that. Instead, tell me why you haven't left me out any apples this time. I'm not going into that kitchen of yours looking. I'm not eating anything that's come out of that kitchen of yours. Bloody biohazard, that little corner, it ought to be scourged with fire.

Fire-fire-fire, why was I thinking about fire? Aside from the fact that your fireplace stinks of piss. (No, I'm not over it. Not sure I'll ever be over it. This place is not how I remember it. Get Watson back in if that's what it takes for you to be fecking tidy) Fire, fire… Why was it that I could smell smoke? And not the kind that would mean you were back on the fags either.

What was it, as I sat down in your living room, that I could smell _burning_? It's going to bother me now. I can't remember.

Can _you_ remember, Sherlock, what was going to burn?

* * *

[To all those who kept the faith - Thank you. Bless you. And while I don't put it past Moffat to be playing some game with us still, it ain't gonna stop me for the next year or so.

Both my burning hearts,

an utterly delighted, practically purring, Sal]


End file.
